The Man in White
by Mallaithe
Summary: Prequel to Early Days, Methos finds Kronos and the Horsemen are formed. Please review.
1. Blooded

A/N Prequel to Early Days, please let me know what you think. Am currently tweaking the last chapter. Thanks for reading.

The man stood on the crest of the hill, his full white cloak and robe whipped and rippled around him in the bitter winter wind. The desert glittered before him promising hidden treasures. His face was obscured by a half mask that left his lower jaw exposed; the flesh of his face was painted a vibrant blue. His eyes glittered behind the mask. The man in white raised a closed fist over his head and unclenched it.

Behind him three men on horseback burst over the hill and charged down into the desert.

Their mounts were clad in terrifying armor and their own visages were terrible to behold. The huge horses easily cleared the crest of the hill and churned the sand into gouts and rivulets as their solid legs pounded downward sending their riders hurtling forward with weapons and voices raised.

At the base of the hill sat a well guarded caravan camp. The guards raised their weapons and rallied a split second before the three horsemen slammed into their defenses. The man in white stood as though stone. His eyes hungrily watching the battle below as the men on horseback slowly won through the guards and began to slaughter in earnest.

Finally the man in white whistled up his own mount and joined the men below. He used his own weapons to great effect achieving at least the same body count as each of the initial riders, with one chief difference.

Where his brothers sought pain, fear, twisted satisfaction in depraved acts he seemed to find satisfaction and peace in the swift delivery of abrupt death. None avoided his attention, the young, old, brave, cowardly. Each and every one fell before him. He was thorough as well.

Once the initial slaughter was complete he dismounted and while his kin sorted through their prizes and found diversions of their own among the dead and dying the man in white- now a dusty ochre from the bloodshed- busied himself among the dying. He mercifully executed all he met and scared up a few who had been petrified by terror, like startled rabbits they sat still and frozen while he approached and took their lives.

"Brother! Rest your tired arm and refresh yourself!" One of the riders called to the man in white. The man rose from his killing, his robe freshly inked with arterial blood. His unreadable gaze behind the mask regarded his comrade. He tilted his head to the desert sun and sheathed his gory blade.

"We are losing the light Kronos."

"So we lose it Methos, who among these primitives would seek to challenge us?" Kronos chortled.

"As you wish brother." The man in white-Methos- said and inclined his head in a gesture of acknowledgment and obeisance.

"He grows soft brother." Another of the riders hissed. The man was hip deep in the dead carving portions of tender belly meat from a particular corpse and devouring it with disturbing enjoyment.

"Silence Caspian, you'd do better to fill your gob with more of your preferred foodstuff than seek to criticize your betters, and mark me, Methos is much more invaluable to me than you, which makes _him_ your better." Kronos growled. Caspian grunted and returned to his macabre meal.

Beyond the cannibal the last rider booted aside scattered cook pots and similar detritus of the camp. He grunted in satisfaction and picked up a length of twisted wood, it looked like a root or possibly driftwood. The barrel-chested man tucked the trinket into his belt and approached his brothers.

"Kronos I agree with Methos we should go back to camp." He rumbled, his voice was rich and surprisingly deep, as though it ascended from the very depths of his bulk to reach his throat.

"Silas my friend, my brother, Methos is a cautious creature, it is why we love him, but there is much of value here. We will gather all we need or desire and_then_ we will ride for home, _only_ then." Kronos said. His voice was laced with the same cheer it had held earlier but with an unmistakably threatening undertone. Silas inclined his head in a gesture similar to Methos' and began searching the camp.

Hours later as the sun set the four men rode forth into the desert. They bore with them the surviving animals of the caravan and anything of value or interest the nomadic traders had carried with them. As they crested the hill the caravan had been foolish enough to camp at the base of, the man in white paused to look back over their work.

The bitter winter wind had served them well, all ready the majority of the camp was dusted with sand, by dawn or perhaps as long as a few days it would take a practiced desert eye to even tell where the camp had stood, in a week or so even the handiest tracker would be at a loss. Satisfied the man in white followed his brothers into the heart of the killing desert.

Water ruled the desert, the control of it and desire for it held more value and potential than any sultan's riches. The horsemen had a keen sense of this power and knew how to procure water in every portion of their familiar empire. Their raiding grounds stretched across the Middle East and most of Europe and at one point they had embraced the African continent but in recent ages they had migrated to the rich lands of the Mediterranean. But always, always, the four returned to their most familiar and powerful land, the wild deserts. Even the Bedouin and nomads who also called it home feared it, but more than the desert they feared the demons and mysteries within the land. Chief among them they feared the legendary horsemen.

The terrible man in white returned to the camp in the rear. His garments were blackened with blood and soot as he entered their encampment and slid from his mounts back, he stripped naked and left the clothing in a heap. He strode to his tent without a word and ignored the slaves scurrying like startled ants throughout his vicinity.

As he entered his tent he wordlessly accepted a bowl of warm scented water from a scantily clad slave girl and began to clean himself. The slave served him efficiently, exchanging the filthy water for clean, providing clean soft robes, delicious foods and cold wine.

He sat back in his clean, warm, soft clothes and regarded the girl speculatively. She had obsidian eyes and very short hair, it was shorn close to the scalp almost like a man's it was wiry and thick, jet black and coarse. Her features were thick and strong, the expression in her eyes was quiet and old.

Methos referred to all of his slaves by the same name, whether uttered in the height of physical passion or before delivering a killing blow, all of the slaves were dog to the man in white.

"Dog, you are excused." He said softly. His voice was rich and icy. The girl knelt and put her head to the ground and then stood and left in silence. She would remain within ear shot of her master should he require anything. Methos sat in the twilight comfort of his refuge and closed his eyes.

He leaned back on his furs and stretched his lean frame. The activities of the day had left him weary indeed. His limbs burned from the effort of the long ride and the arduous killing. He killed because it satisfied him, because it brought him peace, because it was his way and had been for what at times felt like eternity, he killed because he truly believed it was kinder than allowing their victims to live after witnessing the crimes of the horsemen. It was his final act of mercy for hundreds, for thousands of unfortunates who had chanced across the paths of the horsemen.

As he lay on the furs with eyes closed his thoughts strayed back, to the past, to the beginning, to an arena in a far land. To the day he met Kronos.


	2. Arena

He was a faceless slave born to it and as far as he knew bred for it. Cursed with immortality roughly a thousand years before he believed it was a punishment from a malicious god, a way to extend his misery and pain. He stared at the white blue sky above and felt a trickle of sweat trace his jaw line.

By the time the games master opened the gate it would be high noon. If the huddled slaves did not succumb to the heat before then they would be ushered into the arena, barely armed and left to battle against enslaved warriors or wild beasts, whatever the arena had purchased or hired for the end week's festivities.

Methos had endured such challenges countless times in the past. Generally he failed to survive falling to a human hand or a beast's claws and teeth. Still he fought; the lean man was consumed with rage and despair. If he were sure how to permanently end his own life he would likely have done so long ago.

Instead faced with a possibly limitless lifespan he became like steel in a crucible. The weaknesses and flaws of his person boiled away in the arena and his various master's households until now, if handed the secret of his immortality he would have laughed at giving it up, at dying. He would survive to spite the gods and throw mud into the faces of his enemies he would survive, unto the end of time and beyond.

In the pit he wiped at the sweat on his jaw and changed his grip on the loose handled Gladius he had managed to pilfer from the last bout. He used a strip of leather around his free hand to act as a cushion to blows.

At last the gate rattled up and the slave drivers behind the huddled group began to force them up to the light like frightened sheep. Methos bided his time. He knew that the light would dazzle and the crowd would mock and roar like some distant sea.

As they entered the arena the beast that was the crowd roared and cheered. He squinted at the light and focused on discovering what savagery awaited the slaves. There was a mighty tiger chained in one corner and a lightly armored but well muscled slave in the opposite. The slave grinned savagely at the cowering group of pathetic human meat. Methos gripped his sword and glared at the burly stranger.

The group screamed and scattered as the tiger's chain went slack, the giant animal charged the group with a hungry roar.

Methos dodged to the side and avoided the carnage as the huge cat landed amongst the slaves and began to feed. The crowd roared and clambered to its feet. The chain holding the armed slave slackened and he approached the group. Methos readied his sword and waited for the warrior to approach.

As the two circled one another a feeling descended upon them, at once familiar and foreign, these two shared the same immortal nature. Their eyes widened in recognition as their hands tightened on their weapons. They saluted and circled the crowd grew bored with the tiger and its prey and began to watch the two warriors.

The screams of the slaves and the sounds of bones shattering drifted through the hot stilted air as Methos faced his opponent. Finally with a scream the two men rushed one another. Their blades clashed with enough force to stagger both of them.

They strained against one another with inhuman strength, tendons standing out like ropes against their tanned and callused flesh, their eyes boring holes into the other's, jaws ground tight with effort. The warrior bared his teeth at Methos and feinted back, the slimmer man lost his balance for a split second, his foot slammed forward catching his weight as the warrior smashed the butt of his sword into Methos's face.

Methos's face exploded in a wash of blood. Blind and disoriented he desperately backpedaled and scraped at his face hoping to clear his vision enough to avoid another blow.

As his vision cleared and he raised his blade to defend himself the warrior hamstringed him, dropping to the bloody sand with a nauseating abruptness Methos lashed out and scored deep lacerations across both of the warrior's unarmored shins. The man grunted and stepped back. Methos was effectively pinned, unable to rise, or pivot or protect his rear effectively. The crowd roared in jubilation. The warrior stepped out of Methos's range and saluted the crowd which went wild. Then with the grace of a dancer he pirouetted and stabbed Methos in the chest. The strange immortal's face was impossible to read behind his masked helmet.

Methos blinked in surprise and looked down at the blade, with a savage lunge he drove his own blade into the warrior's near thigh and hauled on the handle with enough force to break the weakened connection, leaving the blade in the man's leg. The man staggered backwards and dropped to the sand. Methos fell onto his back and bled to death.


	3. First Glimpse

Methos woke to the sound of insults and blows. Someone was being beaten and ridiculed.

"What good are you to me now? I cannot sell you even!" This was followed by the unmistakable sound of animal hide on human skin. Methos's flesh quivered in sympathy to the blow.

"You stupid arrogant fool! Who wants a one legged slave? Or a slave with a limp? I should kill you now as a lesson to the others!" Another blow followed by a strangled grunt.

"I would have been better off selling you the day I bought you!" This was followed by a series of blows ending in a ragged wail. Silence settled and Methos took a look at his surroundings.

He was lying amidst a mass of contorted limbs and bodies, the offal of the arena, no doubt they were to be burned or buried at some point. In the meantime the foul mass was gathering flies and other insects. It was evening but the sun still shone. Slowly Methos struggled to free himself from the hill of flesh but the weight was enormous and he was weak and worn.

Hours into his struggle he stopped and rested, dozed even before resuming his battle. The sound of his gasps and grunts of effort eventually attracted notice. A battered and bleeding slave appeared. He was limping heavily and using a broken length of wood as a support. The wood was not tall enough to serve as a proper crutch and left the man leaning heavily. His upper body was a rainbow of pain. Dozens of injuries old and new peppered his body. Methos froze; terrified he would be discovered and revealed.

"Who's there?" The slave demanded. Even his voice was weary and damaged, raw and exhausted. He staggered past the offal pile and peered into the fading evening light. Methos remained perfectly still but his previous movements betrayed him. A corpse near the top had been loosened by Methos's efforts and now slid free.

The slave staggered over and began struggling to replace the cadaver when he spotted Methos's eyes staring at him, frightened and very much alive.

"I will help you." The slave said simply and offered his hand. Methos took it and together they managed to free him.

Methos sat covered in blood, sides heaving as he tried to regain his breath and studied the slave.

"Why haven't you healed?" He asked. The slave looked confused.

"I am just a normal man, a slave, a fighter, I heal as and when the gods decide." He said.

"You are not afraid of me?"

"Why would I fear you? I killed you once today; I can do so again quite easily."

"I suppose you could." Methos said speculatively. He was confused. The man felt like another victim of the curse, but it wasn't entirely the same. He supposed it was possible he had not yet received the full curse that it was lying in wait. He shook his head.

"I am Methos if you ever gain your freedom or . . . you will know when, come find me." He said standing shakily.

"I am called Kronos." The slave said watching Methos stand. Methos nodded and walked away, naked and bloody. This time he hoped to escape slavery but the life of a slave seemed always to find him. As he left he pulled a ragged tunic off a torso and slipped it on.


	4. Respectable Man

So, when a man came to him with a special request he thought nothing of accepting the commission. He was requested to receive a slave and insure it was transported safely and quietly to its new master. The commission seemed easy enough and the amount of money the buyer was willing to part with was substantial. So Methos now Merfun the trader took the job.

He waited patiently in the market for the seller to deliver the slave to him. While he waited he watched the crowd of slaves and servants, a few poor householders and single male travelers jockey for position and service. A hand brushed his sleeve tentatively. He looked over and spotted an older man with a thick beard. He was flanked by two large man servants and behind him huddled the slave.

The slave's head was covered in a thick cloth obscuring his features but Methos could feel him, his nature, his immortality calling out to him, like to like. His brow furrowed and he frowned.

"You are Merfun?"

"I am."

"Good, here he is then." The bearded man said and turned as though to leave.

"Wait, I am charged to deliver him in certain condition, I would examine him."

"If you insist." He grumbled. Methos snapped his fingers and his own slave hurried forward. He examined the immortal minutely save his face. Methos waved him back.

"He has been ill used. You will forfeit half you free for his treatment."

"I will not!" The bearded man blustered. Methos gestured and his personal guard stepped forward and surrounded the bearded man.

"I think you will." Methos growled and handed the man a pouch containing half the agreed payment. Methos was shrewd and did not part with money he did not have to. The man took his money and glared at Methos, he parted in silence.

Methos did not speak to the immortal until he was safely installed in Methos's estate complete with armed guards patrolling the house. He sat the slave at his own table and dismissed his slaves and servants. Finally he pulled the cloth off the slave's head.

It was the gladiator from hundreds of years previously, at some point he had obviously lost a bout. By his physical age it looked to be no more than ten years after their initial meeting. Methos frowned and carefully displayed no other emotion.

The man –Kronos- blinked in the dim candle light and studied Methos, he appeared not to recognize him. It was hardly surprising. Methos had grown a beard among other things; he was also not a terrified half savage and naked slave.

"There is food for you here, as well as clothes. You will use that corner for sleeping. We will speak again in the morning." Methos said simply and left the room. He did not know what to do with the man. He couldn't turn him over to a new master gods only knew how much of the intervening 400 years the man had spent in chains. He would not prolong that.

As dawn broke the next day he stood watch over Kronos. The man seemed to sense Methos's attentions even in sleep he stirred uneasily and woke. He regarded Methos with mute hostile eyes.

"You are free. I will not prolong your slavery. I have been a slave for the majority of my life. Do as you like."

"What would that be?"

"Find a trade, travel to a new land and become a new man I don't know or care. Take a blade with you when you leave, you will be given food and clothing as well."

"That is all?"

Methos felt a flare of irritation. The man was lucky to be leaving at all, by rights he should be leaving in chains.

"What more would you have?"

"Your guidance, what are we? Why don't we die?"

"I cannot answer your questions, I do not know, none do. However we can die –"

"Yes decapitation, and then we absorb the life essence of our opponent."

Methos nodded.

"You know as much as I." Methos grunted.

"I do not want to leave."

"Then don't. Stay here, I can teach you my trade." Methos was surprised by his strange turn of heart.

"That would be good." Kronos agreed.


	5. Crime

Methos left the slave to begin his day. The man unnerved him; there was an air of command and strength to him that was at odds with his long stint as property.

As Methos returned to his home his steward raced to meet him.

"Sir, the slave-"

"He is a free man called Kronos." Methos corrected.

"He has taken your best horse M'lord and ridden to town –"

"I will take care of it thank you." Methos said. He mounted his second best horse and rode hard back into town. He spotted his horse tethered outside the slave market. He slipped off the horse before it completely halted and charged into the market. Kronos stood at the front of the market.

His visage was gore streaked and hideous to behold. He was surrounded by death. The buyers and sellers lay slaughtered around him as well as a host of guards, behind him in cages and chains and ropes stood and sat fellow slaves. Methos glared at Kronos, fighting his own nausea and horror.

"What have you done!" Methos shouted. Kronos grinned and jammed his sword into the blood soaked dirt. All ready flies were gathering in the hot air.

"Freed my brothers and sisters." He said simply and set about opening cages and loosening chains. Methos didn't bother to stop him. They didn't have the time to waste in an argument. He waited until Kronos was finished.

"We have to flee here Kronos you fool. The city guard and the prince will be after us within the hour, you have cost us greatly." Methos hissed and turned heel he mounted his spooked horse and calmed it while Kronos mounted his own.

"Come brother we have work to do." Kronos said and grinned at Methos through his mask of gore.

"No, you will wash yourself before my household sees you. I will not have you terrifying them to gratify yourself, we have little time but time enough for that." Methos snapped. Kronos seemed unperturbed by Methos's anger but obeyed.

As the two immortals rode closer to Methos's home it became clear that trouble awaited them. Smoke, thick and black rose to the sky from his household. Methos set his teeth and forced his horse into a faster pace. Kronos shadowed his companion.

The estate was burning and the servants and slaves were gathered together in what had been the courtyard. A band of ten men surrounded them. One man sat before them on his own horse. It was the man who had employed Methos to transport Kronos. As the immortals approached Methos reached under his robe and gripped a hidden blade. Kronos smiled predatorily at the man on horseback.

"You have my property merchant." The man smirked.

"You have violated my land and destroyed _my_ property, this man is kin to me." Methos said coldly.

"I very much doubt that." The bearded man chortled, he gestured and his men moved closer to Methos's people. Methos ground his teeth and frowned.

"What more do you want from me?"

"Only the man at your side."

"Why?"

"I claim blood debt on him." Blood debt meant that Kronos had killed someone close to the bearded man or at least so he claimed.

"What proof have you?" Methos demanded.

He was hoping to stall the man long enough for the forces from the city to arrived, handled carefully he could shift responsibility for the carnage at the slave market onto the bearded man and his men. It was risky and very unlikely to work but it was at the moment their best chance.

"My word and that of my men."

"This man is my brother, we share the same mother, I cannot give him over to death upon the word of a stranger and his hired hands." Methos growled.

Kronos took the opportunity of the stalemate to slip off his mount and wash the majority of the blood from his body and clothing at the well. Finished he returned to Methos's side and stood at his tired horse's head. A thin plume of dust from the direction of the city stained the sky.

"Allow my men to chain the slave and we will leave you in peace."

"No, you have destroyed my home and terrorized my people,people; you have arrived in a war like manner and will leave thusly." Methos snapped drawing his blade. Kronos mimicked Methos, Methos's declaration of kinship whether heartfelt or no had deeply affected the violent immortal.

"We will punish them brother." Kronos snarled.

The bearded man gestured and his men moved to begin killings Methos's people. Methos gestured for Kronos to hold.

"You will not face me as a man?" Methos growled. The man laughed.

"I am a businessman at heart trader Merfun, the last thing I do is take unnecessary risks, no I will not face you, not when I have nine ten heavily armed men surrounding your household, now release the slave to me or watch your household die before I kill you and take him anyway."

Methos froze, his face was blank but his fist tensed on the handle of his sword. He remained very still for a moment and then straightened. Kronos's face twisted in rage and shock, he raised his sword and charged the bearded man. Methos took the distraction as an opportunity and attacked the guards surrounding his people.

The guards waded into the crowd of unarmed people and began hacking Methos killed two but the other eight kept killing, the immortal fought desperately and encouraged his servants and slaves to fight or flee but it was pointless. They died, all of them, in agony and fear. Finally the remaining four men turned their attentions to Methos.


	6. Politics

The immortal was heartbroken and enraged. He had known many of the dead mortals for their entire lives, had watched them become the people they were. Through his grief fought a sense of profound rage. Kronos appeared at his elbow. They readied their blades and put themselves back to back.

As the guards approached the sounds of hooves shattered the air. A band of horsemen with the prince of the city at their head arrived in a cloud of dust.

"Hold!" The prince cried and dismounted. Two of his guards also dismounted. They approached the men.

"Explain." The prince demanded coldly. Methos dropped his blade and put his forehead to the sand before rising humbly. He looked down at the sand respectfully.

"My lord Prince, my companion and I returned from the city to find these men burning our home. They have slaughtered my household in spite of my efforts to stop them."

"Captain." The prince said and nodded at the four surviving guards. The captain and his men chained them and the bearded man, then examined the grounds.

"M'lord Prince, it looks as though they speak the truth." The captain reported.

"Do you believe they are responsible for the carnage in the city?"

"I believe so m'lord Prince, I do not see why these men would have committed such acts in their own home."

"Very well, these men are to be hanged at dawn. Merfun I am sorry for your loss."

"I thank you humbly my noble lord Prince." Methos said his voice thick with genuine grief. Thus was justice served Merfun the trader was known to the city and the prince, he was well landed and provided steady revenue to the city, he paid his taxes promptly and without fuss, donated heavily to the temple and attended faithfully, never had a legitimate complaint petitioned against him and was generally well thought of. The guards were armed and blooded strangers.

As the Prince and his retinue returned to the city Kronos turned to Methos, with tearful eyes Methos began laying out his dead household. His home and stock burned long into the night. As dawn arrived it revealed the mass grave of Methos's home. All the immortal had left was the man at his side, the horses under them and the blade in his hand.

They rode east.


	7. Power Struggle

As they traveled they grew closer to one another. A bond first of mutual need and then trust began to form between them. Kronos began to teach Methos how to fight, Methos taught Kronos control and subtlety. They became a team.

At first they sought a quiet place to rebuild a home and a trade. But as time wore on and it became abundantly clear that Kronos was unsuited for such a life and Methos increasingly dissatisfied with it they moved on becoming nomads.

Their desertcraft was phenomenal. They soon learned through their years how to live in areas even the native Bedouins and Mongol avoided or declared unlivable. They drifted with the winds and vanished just as quickly. Soon they turned to theft and raiding for their livelihood. Both men lived in terror of becoming property again, feeling chains on their limbs and the savagery of a master who knows his property can literally survive any beating.

So they ran and learned, and stole. They killed when they had to but Methos was never fond of it, and then one day it changed, it was subtle so subtle and so slow that neither man noticed really, not then. But the power in the duo shifted, Methos no longer led, Kronos began to make the important decisions, when to seek water, what caravans or travelers to go for. Soon Methos was listening to Kronos's plans and fine tuning them with advice. Slowly it became Methos who planned and Kronos who advised until it was Kronos who decided everything.

Methos grew concerned and attempted to regain his position, to his regret and pain. The love between the men was far from romantic or sexual but more potent because of it. It was the kind of bond shared by survivors of disasters or combat, tempered by a hundred years in the brutal desert. Kronos used that love to punish Methos.

He beat the older man to death and left him alone, in the wind swept vastness. It took Methos a week to find Kronos. He was so relieved and grateful that it was months before he again tried to resume the role of leader, and again he was punished. This went on for several years until both men were resigned to their roles, that was the second time Methos tried to flee his brother.

Kronos brought him back and devised such agonizing punishments, such vile tortures that the thought of disobeying his dearest brother, whom he still loved was enough to drive Methos to his knees in remembered pain and fresh nausea.

Thus was the state of their relationship, an obedient but not cowed Methos and an ascending Kronos, when the two men met Silas.

Silas was a raging Wildman, once shepherd he had been driven from his charges and slaughtered by superstitious herders. In his madness and hurt he lashed out to destroy them. He discovered a new love in the act of combat, the twisting sinews and writhing muscles locked in earnest battle brought a new delight to his ravaged heart.

Methos and Kronos felt Silas a split second before he descended upon them. He was all force and savagery. Methos had spent the long years with Kronos honing his own battle skills and after a protracted battle while Kronos looked on he managed to bring Silas to heel. He was sorely tempted to kill the strange hostile immortal but stayed his hand. There was some lack of cunning and cruelty in the man's eyes that intrigued him.

"End it brother." Kronos growled. Methos shook his head, risking his brother's wrath. No matter if he was beaten so be it, it would be no different than any other day or night in the grip of his 'brother'. As much as he had loved or still loved –he was unsure at times- his sometimes brother his life had devolved to a slow hellacious journey. He risked inciting his brother's rage and abuse with every breath.

"He interests me."

"He would kill you."

"So would you half the time." Methos replied. Kronos's eyes lit up darkly for a moment and then faded, he grinned and chortled.

"So it would seem. Very well then, bind his hands and have him lead us on. It will make for a change of scenery if nothing else." Kronos conceded.

Silas looked upon them with sullen distrusting eyes. Methos spoke softly to him and bound his hands, firmly but not cruelly so. He offered the strange immortal water before taking a mouthful himself from the proffered skin. The big man shook his head in negation and stared resolutely ahead. Methos shrugged and took the loose end of the man's rope in hand, he leapt upon his horse's broad back and urged it forward. Silas dutifully took up a loping plodding pace and led the two bandits forward.

"What is it you like about him brother?" Kronos asked mildly. Methos remained passive; Kronos was at his most dangerous when bored. He was bored now, had been for a day or so, if Methos were very lucky the new distraction provided by the immortal would save his skin for another day or so.

"He is not malicious or truly hostile. I think he was more fearful than anything."

"Death by a fearful hand is as permanent as death by a cunning hand." Kronos pointed out.

"True brother but a cunning mind can be more difficult to train." Kronos smiled slightly recognizing Methos's self referential train of thought.

"Of course."

They rode on in silence for a few hours until the sun began to dip noticeably toward the horizon.

"To what purpose will you use him?" Methos asked. Kronos roused himself from his thoughts.

"I? Dear brother he is your prize, use him as you like."

"If you see fit brother." Methos murmured and inclined his head as to a noble. Kronos laughed a vicious savage noise that rent the air like lightning.

"I always do brother." Kronos said and chuckled to himself. Methos felt a bead of cold sweat that had nothing to do with the desert sun trickle down his back. Kronos was thinking and that was bad for him and the immortal.

As the moon rose Methos sat in his tent and regarded the strange immortal. He tried several languages on the man before finding one he knew. They spoke quietly. The man humbly ate his meager meal and answered Methos's questions.

"What are you called?"

"Animal, demon, death bringer." He said morosely.

"Have you a name?" Methos amended.

"I was called Silas once."

"Do you like that name?" The big man shrugged by way of answer and drank deeply from a water skin.

"I'm afraid you'll have to stay with us now Silas. Kronos is upset I did not kill you." Silas nodded.

"You will have to obey him in everything or he will hurt you." Again Silas nodded expecting nothing less.

"Sleep if you like we have far to go to the next water." Silas nodded again but did not move to sleep.

Methos stood and rewrapped Silas's hands in hide and rope. The hide protected him from abrasion but also hampered his fingers, the rope was tight enough to severely limit movement but allow blood flow. He draped a warm hide over the big man's shoulders and retired to his own sleeping skin. As Methos lay he prepared himself for a light doze. Every sound in the desert night was sharp and clear, every rustle of Silas' bulk, every movement from Kronos' own tent felt like it played across his own skin. He dozed until dawn expecting Silas' killing grip on his throat every moment.

As he stirred and checked over Silas in the weak dawn light he relaxed. The big man was sleeping like a child. Bound hands pillowed under a grizzled cheek he still seemed young. As Methos watched him he stirred and woke. His liquid brown eyes regarded Methos blankly until sleep faded and awareness returned. His face tightened almost imperceptibly but the fire of hate or resentment never appeared. Methos nodded to himself and helped Silas to his feet.

He was careful to watch the big man's movements; he had no desire to receive a beating from Kronos or Silas. Silas rose, slowly ominously, he was truly a massive man, not tall but huge. He leveled his calm eyes at Methos and waited patiently.

Methos led him outside and secured the rope to his horse. He left to see Kronos about their route. As he entered Kronos' tent a ragged shout rang out from the direction of the horses. Methos returned at a cautious trot. Kronos was standing over a bloody Silas.

Methos remained silent not wishing to provoke Kronos further or redirect his attentions.

"I think we would do better to ride on without this one."

"He could be of use."

"I don't see how brother." Kronos said bludgeoning Methos with the familial title.

"Three is better than two and he is a fierce albeit untrained fighter."

"You make a good point brother, but three requires more food, and more water." Methos let the desert wind overcome their conversation as they packed up their camp and moved on.

"Why don't you ask him brother?" Methos asked hours later. Their horses plodded along, content to keep their pace sedate in the heat of the desert sun.

"Bring him here." Kronos ordered, Silas was simply trotting alongside Methos's mount on the opposite side as Kronos. Methos slowed his beast and gestured for Silas to walk between the mounted immortals.

"My brother says you may have a use, do you?"

"I am strong, and I can fight." Silas said his brown eyes boring into Kronos's. Kronos smiled slowly, it was like watching the sunrise. His dark eyes brightened with amusement, his wry and hard face stretched and twisted, he laughed and it was an infectious noise.

"He may stay brother." Kronos said indulgently and rested a hand benevolently upon Silas's shoulder. He smiled at the big man and reached for the rope, he loosened it and allowed Silas to walk free.

So the third joined. The fourth and final horseman was late in arriving; Kronos had farther to go on his own journey to depravity before he would entertain the likes of Caspian. By then another hundred or so years had passed. Silas had grown into a delighted killer of men, Methos had become an artful murderer and Kronos had grown crueler and more calculating, his hunger for conquest and destruction had begun to consume him.


	8. Bound

Kronos was driven by fear and rage. He feared the chains of his old life, feared being owned, feared being exposed and used, but his rage at the mortals who had so used him overwhelmed the fear. The fact that those mortals and their generations of descendents had died long ago mattered not to him.

So the three rode forth spreading slaughter and fire like water across their desert land blood soaked the parched sands and fire lit the midnight sky. By day they slept corpulent and sated in their hellish feasts.

Caspian appeared in the midst of a raid. He did not move to protect the people being slaughtered or to gather the riches strewn about. He moved to the choicest corpses and began to feed, once sated he turned his mad gaze upon the immortals and demanded a challenge. He fought Silas and lost, fought Methos and lost and finally fought Kronos and lost battered, bloodied and crazier than ever he knelt and swore fealty to Kronos unbidden.

Kronos was fixated and fascinated by Caspian's madness. A sort of sick thrall overcame the fearsome man. Whether he saw his future in Caspian or was drawn in by the elaborate grotesqueries of Caspian's nature was hard to say. But slowly Kronos controlled his little brother, tamed and guided him so that he could be trusted with the others, made sure he did not kill all the slaves when left alone, made him . . . civilized.

They became the horsemen one creature with eight arms and four heads, moving like the wind a natural force, like the devastating dust storms and crippling droughts of the region the people came to expect and accept the horsemen, fighting them, killing them would be like killing the wind or defying the gods themselves. So they rode, and they killed, and they owned the land.

But Methos was dissatisfied. Once he had defied Kronos, fled his reign and suffered mightily. He hoped at times alone in his tent when the camp was silent and even the slaves were asleep, when his courage was up he hoped that one day Kronos would let him go, would content himself with the company of Silas and Caspian. He knew it would never happen, the bond between the two men was too palpable too permanent.

In his darkness Methos saw himself in Kronos, the joy in the kill, the satisfaction of knowing you were the deadliest thing under the sun knowing for a fact that no man and no woman could face you, save Kronos of course. Methos wondered how he had lost Kronos, how the hardened half crazed gladiator had become his own master and brother in everything.


End file.
